Reaching Out
by northernexposure
Summary: Sometimes it really doesn't take much. J/C fluff and romance, probably set somewhere in season three/four. (Re-posted from Oct 2015.)


**Reaching Out**

 **A/N:** First posted in October 2015, when it was beta'd by MissyHissy3. I've tweaked it slightly here and there for this re-post.

* * *

It happens one night, entirely unexpectedly, which is why it is so possible to believe that it could just as easily have never happened at all. They've had dinner in her quarters (not a bad attempt, for a change) and are lingering over a final glass of wine or two. Chakotay has chosen one of the chairs, Kathryn is on the couch beneath the window. The distance between them is perfect. Not too near, not too far. Appropriate, for all manner of reasons.

She's looking at his tattoo. It's one of the things she allows herself to do – one of the small things that can't possibly hurt because it can't possibly mean anything, but that makes her feel less alone. At moments like this, she imagines herself running her fingertips over the inked lines on his face. She wonders what it would feel like. She wonders what the moment could ever be that would allow her to find out.

He sighs a little, and she shifts her gaze to his eyes. They are smiling at her, and she raises an eyebrow even as she raises her glass to her lips. It is a flirtatious expression, and she knows it. She is being selfish, and she knows that too. He is the only person she allows herself to be this way with, and she tries not to do it too often. But there are times when she needs it, and she knows that he knows that, as well. There are times she needs to feel her skin alive with the grace of someone else's knowledge, and this is the closest she will ever come to having that in all the time that she is Captain of the good ship _Voyager_.

But she realises somewhat belatedly that tonight, there's something else in the air. She doesn't fully register it until Chakotay breaks her gaze, gets up from his chair and takes the two steps around the table to sit down beside her on the couch.

He takes a breath and turns to look at her.

He is close enough that if she reached out now she could find out what those lines of his would feel like beneath the tips of her fingers.

They look at each other, steadily, the air growing thick and silent between them. He smiles slightly. In the curve of his lips rests reassurance, and in his eyes remains the smile she loves so well.

She's not quite sure what is happening. She should probably get up and move, or make some other gesture to cut through the intimacy that seems to be developing in this moment. But she doesn't, because she feels no threat. She knows he wouldn't dream of becoming one. He's not going to lean forward and kiss her. He's not going change this evening from something it could be to something it shouldn't have been. She trusts him, because he knows her. So she lets the moment hang, and waits him out.

Chakotay smiles again, and she can tell he's trying to form words around whatever concepts are dancing behind those warm eyes. Her heart hitches a beat despite itself.

"One day," he says, softly, "you're going to have to ask me."

The beat that skipped once skips again. She looks at her glass, takes a mouthful. He's watching her face, and she wonders what he sees there. A flush that could be put down to the wine and the food, perhaps, although he knows her better than that, too.

"What do you think I want to ask you?" she asks. But her voice is a husk, barely even there.

Chakotay smiles again and reaches out to take the glass from her fingers. He puts it on the table in front of them and then takes her fingers, instead. Brushes his over hers, softly, warmly.

"I don't know," he tells her. "Sometimes I think I do, but other times I'm less sure." He rests his free arm against the back of the seat, so that his hand is barely an inch from her back. The fingers resting against hers spread her hand to stroke against her palm. He's touched her before and sometimes the touch has lingered, an extended play on her flirtatious game, but this is different. This has purpose behind it. Intent.

She does move, then. Not much, just enough that he knows he's too far over the line. She shifts a little and he removes his hand, but not his arm. She reaches out and reclaims her glass, and then they look at each other again. The expression in his eyes hasn't changed, and she knows what he is saying. She knows that he's right. But whatever she says now will be wrong, because she will tell him what she wants while not asking for it, and even doing that will stake a claim she has no right to own.

Kathryn looks down at her drink. "If I asked you for anything," she says, "it would be to wait. And that's the one thing I can't ask you for."

"Why can't you ask that?" he asks, softly.

She takes a breath, lost already, because this admission – her reason – is the answer to another question he hasn't asked and now won't need to. "Because you could be waiting forever. And that would be the height of cruelty."

There is a moment of silence, and in it she realises that here is the end. It has come upon her suddenly and without preamble. Just like that, over a fairly standard evening in her quarters, they have confronted this thing that has tied them together while necessarily keeping them apart. After tonight, he will no longer be her safe harbour, she realises. After tonight, there will be no more studying of his tattoo, no harmless wishing to touch her fingers to his temple and feel as well as see it.

"The one thing I can't live with is the uncertainty," he says then. "You can ask me for anything, but you can't expect me to put my entire life on hold for a guess. I can handle waiting. I'm a patient man. But not knowing for certain whether there's a reason to wait – that's different."

She blinks. Her heart has migrated to her throat and her breath, she realises now, fled moments ago.

"Give me a reason to wait," he adds, in a whisper. "Tell me its what you want, and I won't bring it up again until we bring this ship in over San Francisco bay. But don't just leave me to work it out for myself. I'm not that arrogant, Kathryn."

She turns to him, watches his face. The expression there is still gentle. He's pushed further than she ever thought he would, but he hasn't done it out of impatience. He's done it to show her how very patient he could be, if only she'd give him the chance. She sees, now, with a burst of something very close to euphoria, that she has been wrong. All this time, she's been going about this the wrong way, and she couldn't possibly be happier to realise it.

Kathryn leans forward and puts her glass down. Her hands are shaking slightly. She turns to him and raises one, fingers outstretched. When they make contact with his temple, the warmth of his skin radiates into her like sunlight. The lines are indistinguishable from him, as she somehow always knew they would be. She starts at the furthest line, tracing, tracing.

"The longer we're out here, the harder it will get," she whispers.

"I know."

"You may meet someone."

"I have."

She reaches the final curve. The pattern is wisdom, she realises. The pattern is a certainty she would adopt in a heartbeat. "I can't-"

He reaches up, encircles her wrist. "You can."

She looks at him then. Their hands are entwined. When she says the words, it is a breath into the unknown.

"I want you to wait. Chakotay, I want you to _wait_. For _me_. Until I'm free. Until-" she breaks off, shakes her head.

He's smiling.

Despite herself, her heart explodes. She leans forward.

She kisses him.

It's just once, but they make it count.

[END]


End file.
